


With a Touch of Madness & Reckless Abandon

by impertinences



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Aerial Silk Sex, Cuckolding, Eventual Smut, F/M, Headcanon, Mr. J and Harley Have a Playroom, Murder, Pairing Appropriate Warnings, Porn With Plot, Psychotic Relationship Dynamics, Violent Sex, Voyeurism (implied)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 17:43:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7723795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impertinences/pseuds/impertinences
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You wanna play with the big boys and be a drinker, Harley-girl? You wanna be a fiend? A little monster?” The Joker gnashes his teeth as he talks, emphasizing the nouns. </p><p>Harley traces her fingers around the rim of the rocks glass on the table. Her eyes are shining, bright in their blueness, but lacking the innocence and fearfulness a less experienced (a less insane) woman would have. “I want what you want, puddin’.”</p><p>The Joker bark-laughs, staccato sounds that punctuate a voiceless thought. </p><p>[And so the game begins.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	With a Touch of Madness & Reckless Abandon

**Author's Note:**

> Cuckolding and aerial-silk sex. What more could you want? Albeit, this became more plot-focused/character-study-esque than smut. The smut is at the end. 
> 
> Please be aware: pairing appropriate warning applies.

The club is hot with bodies, the air thick, the music loud, the money flowing. The drinks are rich, and they taste like honey to Harley as she drinks. 

It isn’t date-night, and they aren’t out to play, but she’s had a feeling … an itch that something is lurking, waiting, just around the corner. But Mr. J has business, so in-between rounds on the dance floor, she’s slunk back to his side, a bright, manic shot of life in an otherwise serious engagement. 

She brings a bottle of Maker’s Mark with her and drapes a lazy arm around the Joker, interrupting him mid-conversation. He doesn’t seem to mind; his eyes roll in her direction, not without playfulness. “You wanna play with the big boys and be a drinker, Harley-girl? You wanna be a fiend? A little monster?” He gnashes his teeth as he talks, emphasizing the nouns. 

Harley traces her fingers around the rim of the rocks glass on the table. Her eyes are shining, bright in their blueness, but lacking the innocence and fearfulness a less experienced (a less insane) woman would have. “I want what you want, puddin’.”

The Joker bark-laughs, staccato sounds that punctuate a voiceless thought. 

“You know, some men are against the equalizing of women.” He turns his wild eyes to the pair of so-called businessmen sitting across from them at the club’s private room. They’re scarred and tattooed and one has skin darker than midnight. They say they aren’t looking for trouble, but the Joker knows trouble when he sees it, knows the many nefarious shapes trouble can come in. “But not me, no, no, no. I think my little lady here deserves … all the opportunities this world can offer …” He lets his hands flutter in the air as he drawls. 

Harley refills their whiskey -- whiskey, she knows, is the drink for business deals -- thinking he looks like one of those fancy music conductors she once saw at Gotham’s premier opera house. (His clothing is different, of course. She’s only seen him in one of those penguin suits a handful of times; his current unbuttoned, off-white silk shirt – the sleeves rolled up to the elbows to show off his ink – and gold jewelry would look silly at an opera. Or maybe perfect. She can’t decide.) That was a long time ago. Now, she’s sloppy when she pours, too heavy-handed, and the alcohol splashes over the rim and onto the table. She draws a long finger through one of the amber puddles and licks it off, smiling around her nail at the feel of the Joker’s eyes on her mouth. 

“So,” he claps his hands together, and maybe the two men flinch from the sound. “What do you want Harley-Pie, fire of my loins, my deviant Queen, hmmm? What would make you happy?”

The pair look at her. She looks back, steady-eyed, and cants her head like a child inspecting two potential dolls before pointing. “That one.”

“Winner, winner, chicken dinner!” The Joker cackles, leaning across the table suddenly, pushing into the black man’s space with a growl to take his hand and shake it furiously. “You lucky dog.” 

Luck, as it turns out, is an unfair bitch. 

The other businessman doesn’t get any luck. He gets a bullet to the throat so he can choke, gurgling on his own blood, and the musical sound of Harley Quinn’s laughter in his ears before it’s lights out forever and bye-bye birdie. 

But at least his death was quick, comparatively speaking. 

 

\----

 

He doesn’t get a choice. Luke Arson understands this long before his partner is shot beside him and spits blood on the left side of his navy suit coat. He’s just spent enough time in Blackgate to understand that when a crime lord, especially one with the Joker’s infamous reputation, gives you an opening … you take it. No matter where it might lead. 

Some men, Luke knows, aren’t looking for questions that have more than one answer. They don’t give you a hallway full of doors and tell you to choose one without already knowing which door opens to what unseen horror. The game is rigged. 

The Joker is the House, and the House always wins. 

But at least Harley Quinn is lovely to look at. She’s terrifying, sure, but even a blind man would be able to see her unique desirability. Her gazelle legs wrapped in fishnet that stop at the thigh. The barely-there slip of a dress with its gold clasp looping behind her neck and begging to be ripped. The matching gold heels that push her ass up even higher when she walks and how her hips roll to the club’s music (or whatever tune she’s hearing in her head). It’s all too obvious that she isn’t wearing anything beneath it, that maybe she’s been spreading her legs beneath the club’s table and letting the Joker’s hand start on her thigh and creep up and up and up …

Right. Luke is fucked. 

But he finds himself leaning into her when she wraps a soft, ivory arm around his neck and curls into his solid chest. He breathes in the smell of her – coconut and blood-rust and something sugary, like bubblegum. The Joker claps him on the back of his shoulder, as if he isn’t a walking dead man, but madness much be catching because it doesn’t seem so bad anymore. He doesn’t even think he’s giving much up once they’re in the custom purple Vaydor, the Joker’s foot holding the pedal to the floor, and he’s tracing his dark fingers on Harley’s creamy thighs. 

There have been worse last nights on Earth. 

 

\---

 

He has flames tattooed up the full length of his arms. A fire-bug, they called him, but not as unstable as most. It’s just that Luke has always loved watching things burn. 

She’s a lot like wildfire, Harley Quinn. She starts one place and redirects suddenly, as if on a whim. She teeters and topples and all the while keeps burning. Her fingers tip-tap up his right arm while the Joker makes all three of them drinks because they’re all chums, right? And nothing’s wrong here. Nope, not a thing. Harley declines hers, feeling just as fine on nothing at all, but Luke knows to accept. 

The two royals of Gotham’s seedy underbelly own a refurbished factory. It’s big with guards and goons lurking in the shadows and prowling various corners. Luke barely notices them. Harley twirls like a ballerina down a flight of stairs with the two of them following, the clown king and the firestarter. The Joker swallows loudly from his drink, a green concoction that looks noxious and smells bitter, occasionally glancing at his IPhone to send out a quick text. When he catches Luke watching, his mouth splits into his trademark grin. 

“Business, business,” he laments with a jerky shrug, not sounding sorry at all. 

Luke imagines that somewhere, just now, in the time it took for a text to be sent, someone is getting his throat cut, a bullet to the brain, a hand severed from a wrist with a meat cleaver, or worse. 

“All work and no play, that’s my puddin’.” Harley sing-songs from in front of them, opening the closest door on her left. She ushers them in with a grand circling gesture of her arm, giggling when the Joker tugs on a fistful of her hair in passing.

This is her second favorite room, the playroom. Her first is their bedroom, but Harley doesn’t like to bring her toys in there. (Some things are sacrosanct, and she’s naturally categorical. Part of what’s left of her psychiatrist’s brain tries to compartmentalize even now.) It’s more purple than red, a deep plum-wine color that flatters the Joker’s unnatural, verdant hair and pale complexion. It brings out the chemically-induced flairs of cotton-candy blue and pink in Harley’s pigtails and the plush, pillow shape of her wide mouth. She bites one of her nails, coquettish, and watches the Joker slink off, like some predatory panther, into a corner. She can hardly make out the sheen of his shirt between all the heavy, abundant yards of silk hanging from the industrial ceiling but she knows he’s watching. 

“What’s this? Some kind of circus ask?” Luke says it playfully enough, his mouth turning up at one corner in a half-smirk. His voice is deep and lulling. He touches the nearest suspended fabric with one of his dark hands. It’s soft. 

Too soft to hold a body, he thinks, but sure enough Harley has already wrapped one of her firm legs around a section of silk and grabbed a second with her opposite hand. “What’s the matter, baby? You don’t like acrobatics?” She puts on a pout but rolls her eyes, juxtaposing sensuality with adolescent insolence. 

Luke doesn’t know the first thing about acrobatics, but his cock twitches in anticipation when he watches her hands glide over the silk, fisting it, testing its resilience and stretch. It looks more like a magic act than a circus performance when she lifts herself from the floor, seemingly effortless and graceful. Ethereal would be the word, but Luke doesn’t know it, so he thinks, briefly, of angels burning in a starless night sky. 

He follows her as she moves up and up and up, twisting herself, contorting, and his breath catches in his big throat when she plummets – falling, rapid, all the silk untangling from her lithe body, and he knows, he sees it coming, she’s going to unwind all the way to the floor and crack her pretty skull open and – 

Impossibly, she catches herself, suspended within touch above him, one hand clutching the silk securely and her legs outstretched in a full split. She’s upside down, her hair dangling, her smile full of amusement. His eyes are distracted by the glint of the heels strapped to her delicate ankles, by how gravity has made her slinky dress fall and expose the tops of her breasts, one pink nipple a hard little bud brushing the edge of the plunging neckline, and he’s surprised to see that he was wrong before – she’s wearing a strip of black lace between her thighs, so delicate and tiny that he could rip it with his teeth.

He thinks he might, but first he kisses her while she’s upside down. 

She tastes sour, acrid. Not what he expects. Luke wanted saccharine sweetness and found toxicity instead. 

 

\---

 

He’s a big man, as solid as an oak tree. She thinks of all the ones she used to climb as a child, and this isn’t much different. He can’t use the silks like she can, so she rights herself and falls lower, using the aerial bindings as a makeshift hammock-swing. He’s so dark – darker than her, darker than Mr. J – at least on the outside. She likes how his hands contrast with her snow-pale hips, thighs, breasts. He drags his mouth, greedy-greedy and hungry for a taste, from her bared neck to her shoulder to the top of her breast, rolling his tongue as he goes, biting on her nipple. It’s heat and teasing sharp pain and she giggle-gasps, rolling her head back on the silk, letting it take her weight. 

Positioned between her thighs, one of her long legs curled around his waist, she uses the aerials to rock back and forth against Luke. Her hips are rolling, and she can feel her own wetness on the insides of her thighs, her lace strip of underwear gone sticky with it. Harley ruts and rubs, mewling, laughter always half-caught in her throat. 

She can feel his hardness against her thigh, trapped in his fancy dress pants. She somehow manages to wiggle a hand between them and palms the length of him, squeezing. Her reward is a grunt, animalistic, breathy. He returns the favor by biting her nipple again and thrusting eagerly into her little palm. With a few knowing finger-tricks, she has him free and his cock is heavy, warm, flesh-on-flesh. Harley gives a testing stroke, rolling her palm around the sensitive head, and laughs softly when Luke’s eagerness takes over. 

He catches her by the hips and pushes forward, fingers moving aside the fabric between her thighs hurriedly, and then there’s the burn-stretch of impact. She growls low in her throat, baring her teeth, turning her head into the silk as her cheeks flush with color. 

Luke is slower than the others she’s brought home. He takes his time, rocking his hips, using the movement the aerials provide to their mutual satisfaction. She isn’t close, but she can feel the butterfly-warmth in her stomach, can feel her fingers curling and uncurling, on edge. They fuck like this for five minutes, ten, and the sweat beads across Luke’s forehead, his teeth gritting; his skin tastes salty when Harley leans up to lick his jaw with a moan. She’s hot and wet, her cunt glove-tight around his cock, each thrust and push coaxing some minx-like noise from her red mouth. 

He’s enamored by the way the silk binds her, holds her open for him like an offering, and this must be what fire-walking feels like. He thinks himself unburnt until, between Harley’s husky cries, he hears the sound of applause behind him. Clapping in time with his thrusts. Clapping low and dark and patient. A sound like disaster, creeping forward, mingling with his lust and his fear, and then it’s Harley’s bright, clear cry that contrasts the cold sliver of steel against his throat. 

The Joker cuts, precise, clean, but Harley still manages to get blood on her. It seeps into the slick crevice between her breasts, spatters across her sharp collarbone. She laughs, a wild dog sound, and kicks her long legs enough to help Luke’s body slump to the ground. 

Still suspended, she gives a lazy stretch, and curls her fingers in a beckoning gesture. “Not done,” she whines, ever insatiable. 

The Joker tsks at her, darkly amused, and steps over the arsonist’s bloody, well-dressed body to slip between her legs. He’s more narrow and knife-sharp than Luke had been, but her body molds to him easier, better. Harley gives a satisfied whimper when he cups her jaw, hard. She dips her head, catches one of his fingers in his mouth and sucks slowly. 

“What do you want, Harley-Pie?” He growls, feeling his cock hard and painful against his leg. 

Harley smiles, speaking around the finger in her mouth, the one that tastes like steel and acid, “I want what you want, puddin’.”

“Good girl,” the Joker croons, and slides his free hand between her thighs.


End file.
